;-NRLF 


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YOUTH 

And  Other  Poems 

by 
CHARLES  HANSON  TOWNE 

author  of  (<  The  Quiet  Singer" 
and  "Manhattan  " 


NEW  YORK 

MITCHELL  KENNERLEY 
MCMXI 


Copyright  IQII  by  Mitchell  Kennerley 


The  frontispiece  is  from  a  drawing  by 
Thomas  Fogarty 


273343 


To  my  Friend 
Richard  Le  Gallienne 

a  poor  payment  of  many  literary  debts 

f    (fi 


For  the  privilege  of  reprinting  the  lyrics  in 
cluded  in  this  volume,  the  author  thanks  the 
editors  of  Harper's  Magazine,  The  Forum,  The 
Bookman,  Lippincott's,  Ainslee's,  The  Crafts 
man,  Collier's  Weekly,  Harper's  Bazar,  The 
Cosmopolitan,  Munsey's,  Hampton's,  and  The 
Smart  Set.  Youth  has  not  appeared  elsewhere. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

YOUTH  9 

SHELLEY'S    SKYLARK  55 

A   SONG   IN  APRIL  5g 

KNOWLEDGE  59 

AFTER    THE    QUARREL  60 

NIGHT  6l 

SLOW    PARTING  62 

OF  A  FRIEND  WHO  DIED  IN  THE  SPRING  63 

EASTER  IN  THE  CITY  64 

SMOKE  66 

MIDSUMMER  6g 

THE    DAYS    REBUKED    ME  69 

WHEN  A  GREAT  MAN  DIES  7o 

THREADS   OF   SONG  yi 

AT  THE  END  OF  SEPTEMBER  ?2 

A     WOMAN'S    PARTING  74 

SONG  75 

BONDAGE  76 
TRIUMPHANT 


77 
DUSK 

LOPE'S    RITUAL 


IN  THE   YEAR'S  DUSK  7g 


79 
SLEEP  go 

O/1  DEATH  gl 


YOUTH 


YOUTH 

I 

r  I  ^HEIR  studio  was  up  among  the  stars, 

And  there  they  worked,   and  dreamed,  and 

found  Life  good. 

The  shouting  City  roared  far,  far  below, 
The  Elevated  thundered  at  their  feet, 
And  the  vast  marts  of  Trade  sent  up  faint  sounds 
When  the  loud  whirlwind  of  the  morning  shook 
The  tired  world,  and  brought  its  ancient  news. 

His  name  was  Donald  Kent,  and  he  was  young 

With  the  fine  strength  of  manhood;  but  a  boy 

Forever  in  his  simple  joyfulness; 

He  was  an  architect,  and  strove  to  make 

Each  simple  home  he  reared  a  home  indeed, 

A  symbol  of  the  beauty  that  he  knew 

Should  flourish  in  the  meanest  neighborhoods. 

Yet  there  were  days  when  he  would  dream  his  dream 

Of  fabled  cities  by  a  Grecian  sea 

[9] 


YOUTH 

With  columns  shining  in  the  Summer  sun ; 

He  had  his  visions  of  a  perfect  town 

That  one  day  he  would  come  to  build  for  men, 

Where  every  dome  should  have  a  meaning;  each 

Tall  temple  have  a  deep  significance, 

And  every  street  lead  to  some  quiet  trees. 

Here  Beauty  should  be  not  an  accident, 

But  the  great  keynote  and  the  cornerstone, 

The  one  inevitable,  holy  thing. 

He  thought  no  structure  lasts  that  is  not  built 

Upon  the  airy  fabric  of  a  dream; 

And  every  day  amid  his  busy  life 

He  found  some  hour  to  rear  within  his  heart 

The  fairy  city  that  would  surely  rise, 

Fairy  no  longer,  but  a  thing  of  steel, 

Mighty  with  marble,  powerful  with  stone. 


[10] 


YOUTH 

II 

Though  Donald  dreamed,  there  were  realities 

Within  his  life  that  seemed  too  good  to  be; 

And  sometimes  when  the  starlight  pierced  the  glass 

Above  his  crowded  working-room,  he  paused 

In  the  conception  of  some  curious  plan 

To  marvel  at  the  Love  that  wrapped  him  round. 

How  young  she  was,  how  beautiful  and  good, 

Lucy,  his  wife,  who  wove  his  days  with  gold 

And  silver  threads,  his  nights  with  unguessed  joys ! 

How  sweetly  at  his  side  she  often  stood, 

Silent,  maybe,  if  the  hushed  hour  was  late 

And  he  was  busy  at  his  sketching-board. 

And  when  she  waited,  patient,  till  he  turned 

To  press  a  kiss  upon  her  lips,  he  knew 

How  much  she  cared  for  him  and  for  his  work, 

And  would  not  interrupt  him  in  his  toil 

Unless  she  deemed  it  was  not  good  for  him 

To  drag  his  labor  far  into  the  night. 

"Come,  Donald,"  she  would  say,  her  tender  tone 
Like  a  soft  bell  in  the  dim  studio, 


YO  UTH 

"This  is  not  right,  for  now  the  moon  has  gone, 
And  I  have  heard  the  tower  clock  strike  two. 
Put  by  your  blue-prints  and  those  dizzy  plans, 
And  rest  with  me,  for  it  is  very  late. 
Your  brain  is  tired,  and  if  you  will  sleep, 
The  morning  will  bring  clearer  thoughts,  I  know." 
Then  she  would  kiss  his  brow,  brush  back  his  hair, 
And  lead  him  to  the  quiet  that  he  loved, 
The  haven  of  her  arms — that  little  world 
Which  held  the  ultimate  meaning  of  all  things, 
And  every  truth  that  any  man  need  learn. 

Few  men  are  ever  loved  as  he  was  loved, 

Or,  being  thus  adored,  can  understand 

The  wonder  of  a  woman's  priceless  gift. 

But  Donald,  though  sometimes  when  he  was  lost 

In  devious  hopes  and  fears,  seemed  to  forget 

The  part  that  Lucy  played  in  his  young  life, 

Remembered  always  that  it  was  to  her 

He  owed  his  sure  reliance  in  himself; 

And  he  would  tell  her  so,  confessing  all 

His  boyish  weaknesses — his  indolence, 

His  love  for  loitering  in  the  teeming  Square 

When  she  might  need  him  for  some  trivial  thing; 

[12] 


YOUTH 

His  quickness  to  forget  to  send  to  her 
The  daily  word  when  absent  from  her  side. 
And  she  forgave  him  always,  though  her  heart 
Was  sometimes  almost  breaking  for  the  sign 
Of  the  affection  that  all  women  need. 
Yes,  always  she  forgave,  as  women  will 
Until  the  Judgment  Day. 

Forgiveness  kills 

The  old-time  ache,  and  covers  up  our  wounds; 
Forgiveness  cleanses  like  a  spiritual  flame, 
And  hushes  all  the  heartbreak  of  the  world. 
It  is  a  flower  that  never  can  decay, 
It  is  a  star  whose  wonder  never  fails; 
Its  beauty,  springing  from  a  woman's  breast, 
Thrice  glorifies  the  heart  it  gives  release, 
And  makes  the  hour  thrice  sweet  wherein  it  blooms. 


[13] 


YOUTH 


III 

Those  good  young  days  of  theirs  were  gladly  lived; 
Yet  who  can  not  be  happy  in  one's  youth? 
Well,  add  to  youth  ambition,  health  and  love, 
And  you  have  quite  the  sum  of  happiness. 

Donald  had  known  that  Lucy  must  be  his 

The  moment  that  he  saw  her  on  a  day 

When  Spring  had  jubilantly  come  to  town. 

He  wooed  her  ardently,  yet  boyishly, 

In  just  the  manner,  half  dependable, 

Half  masterful,  that  every  dreaming  girl 

Deems  wonderful  and  perfect  beyond  hope. 

He  rushed  into  her  heart  and  stormed  her  soul— 

That  citadel  which  had  not  been  dismayed 

By  such  a  flaming  lover.     Here  at  last, 

He  told  her,  was  the  woman  he  must  love 

Now  and  for  all  eternity.     She  smiled.      .      .     . 

And  then  he  poured  out  all  his  need  of  her, 

And,  to  a  woman,  that  one  argument 

Is  worth  a  world  of  passionate  appeal. 

[14] 


YOUTH 

They  wed  that  very  Summer;  and  although 
They  were  so  poor  in  everything  save  Love, 
Donald  was  certain  he  could  make  a  home 
Sufficient  to  their  simple  needs.      His  wife, 
(O  magic  word  to  him!)  was  surer  still 
When  bravely  they  talked  over  what  the  years 
Might  hold  for  them;  and  so,  without  a  fear, 
Together  they  took  up  their  happy  lives 
Amid  the  seething  City's  frantic  roar. 
And  Donald  planned  a  little  room  for  her 
Behind  the  chambers  where  his  former  days 
Had  studiously  been  spent — a  little  room 
Made  all  of  grey  birch-bark,  with  tiny  stairs 
Leading  upon  the  building's  spacious   roof. 
There    were    low    lines    of    shelves    to    hold    their 

books — 

Volumes  they  both  had  long  since  learned  to  love — 
Omar  and  Epictetus,  Shelley,  Keats, 
Marcus  Aurelius,  and  R.  L.  S., 
Rossetti,  Browning,  Ruskin,  and  some  good 
Old  architectural  sets  that  Donald  knew 
Almost  by  heart;  yet  dearer  than  the  rest 
Was  Richard  Feverel  that  Lucy  read 
Again  and  still  again,  because  somehow 

[15] 


YOUTH 

The  Lucy  there  seemed  so  much  like  herself, 
And  Donald  like  the  Richard  of  that  tale, 
Manly  and  big,  but  always  such  a  child. 
They  called  the  contents  of  their  little  shelves 
Their  "attic  crumbs";  but  what  a  feast  it  was 
For  two  young  mice  to  nibble  day  by  day ! 

One  stepped  from  out  this  room  upon  the  roof, 

And  though  the  busy  City  hummed  below 

And  all  around,  this  spot  seemed  close  to  heaven, 

So  far  removed  it  was  from  the  loud  voice 

Of  the  tumultuous  town.     Here  Quiet  breathed 

Her  benediction  at  the  sunset  hour; 

And  through  that  first  sweet  Summer,  Lucy  served 

Their  golden  dinners  underneath  the  sky, 

The    stars    and    moon    their    lanterns;    her    bright 

flowers 
A  screen  to  hide  them  from  strange  neighbors'  eyes. 


[16] 


YOUTH 


IV 

Those  were  the  loveliest  evenings  of  the  world! 
At  least,  so  thought  young  Donald  and  his  bride, 
That  Summer  as  they  loitered  in  the  town, 
While  other  unimaginative  folk 
Fled  to  some  distant  shore  or  crowded  inn. 
But  Love  is  where  you  make  it,  Donald  knew, 
And  though  the  City  baked  beneath  the  sun 
Through  the  July  and  August  days,  the  nights 
Upon  their  roof  were  swept  by  cooling  winds, 
And  Lucy's  rows  of  bright  geraniums 
Nodded  their  scarlet  faces  in  the  breeze; 
And  often  their  unshielded  candles  blew 
Suddenly  out. 

Then  Donald  used  to  say, 
What  need  had  they  of  any  far-off  spot, 
High  in  the  mountains  or  by  any  coast, 
When  here  the  winds  of  heaven  were  as  kind, 
And  the  same  stars  seemed  even  kinder  yet. 

Youth  sadly  learns  that  even  honeymoons, 
However  happy,  cannot  always  last; 

[17] 


YOUTH 

And  Donald  found  he  had  to  earn  his  bread, 
And  seek  new  work,  if  but  the  common  joys, 
The  casual  blessings  of  their  level  days 
Were  to  endure.      But  happily  for  him 
Fortune  was  kind  indeed;  and  he  would  know 
His  proudest  moments  when  to  Lucy's  room 
He  rushed  with  face  aglow,  to  tell  the  news 
Of  fresh  important  plans;  and  they  would  laugh, 
Enthusiastic  children  that  they  were. 
"I  knew  it,"  she  would  say;  "success  will  come 
To  you,  my  Donald — it  is  coming  fast, 
And  O,  how  happy  I  am  for  your  sake!" 
Then  always  he  would  kiss  her,  and  their  eyes 
Would  meet  in  comprehension;  in  that  bliss 
That  only  lovers  know.     Then  he  would  say, 
uTo-night,  to  celebrate,   a  taxicab 
Shall  take  a  certain  princess  for  a  ride ! 
To-night  a  garden  restaurant  I  know 
Shall  be  transfigured  by  her  presence  there. 
A  great  repast,  with  sparkling  Burgundy, 
Shall  tempt  her  where  a  tinkling  fountain  plays, 
And  a  far  band  pours  out  the  tunes  we  love. 
So,  will  the  princess  wear  that  light  lace  gown 

[18] 


YOUTH 

Her  poor  prince   loves,    and   deign   to   come   with 

him?" 

"Now,  Donald,"  always  Lucy's  sense  of  thrift 
Began  protesting,  uwhy  do  this  to-night? 
Such  wild  extravagance — such— 

"Never  mind, 

Dear  little  hermit  of  this  city  cave, 
You  know  how  futile  your  New  England  qualms 
Will  ever  be  with  me !     So  come  along, 
The  steedless  coach  is  waiting  at  the  gate, 
And  though  we  are  the  poorest  of  the  poor, 
I  mean  to  give  my  wife  a  glorious  time!" 

Who  could  resist  his  sweet  commanding?     Who 
Would  wish  to?  Lucy  in  her  heart  of  hearts 
Said  softly  to  herself.     And  so  they  went, 
Young,  radiantly  young,  to  steal  one  night, 
One  jeweled  night  from  Time's  sealed  treasury. 


[19] 


YOUTH 


There  is  a  love  that  never  can  embrace 
Friendship,  the  while  its  passion  it  expands; 
A  love  that  locks  all  others  from  its  doors 
Save  the  one  creature  of  its  worshipping, 
The  accident  divine  that  gave  it  life. 

There  is  another  love  that,  loving  much, 

Would  learn  to  love  the  world  and  friendship  more, 

Counting  the  ancient  links  not  useless  now, 

But  dearer,  more  desired  than  of  old; 

A  love  that  of  its  strength  would  seek  to  aid 

The  weak  and  the  forgotten;  of  its  warmth 

To  kindle  fires  on  hearths  still  desolate, 

And  cherish  those  that  know  not  Love's  white  name. 

So  high  a  love  was  Donald's — Lucy's,  too; 
Each  had  a  friend,  and  their  joy  could  not  shut 
Those  friends  from  out  the  circle  of  their  bliss. 
They  used  to  talk  of  them  incessantly, 
Donald  like  this:      "I'll  send  for  Michael,  dear; 
He  is  alone  to-night,  and  doubtless  tired 

[20] 


YOUTH 

With  grinding  out  his  copy  for  the  press; 

I  wish  he  could  relinquish  that  dull  work, 

And  only  write  the  things  he  dreams  to  write — 

The  songs  that  come  too  seldom  from  his  pen. 

I  need  him,  Lucy.     You  know  what  I  mean — 

That's  why  I  love  you  so.     Two  men  can  talk 

Over  a  pipe  and  over  a  mug  of  beer 

As  man  and  woman  never  yet  have  talked!" 

And  then  when  Michael,  their  young  poet,  came, 
His  mop  of  tawny  hair  all  disarranged, 
Lucy  would  often  say  good-night  to  them, 
And  in  the  little  birch-bark  room  sit  down 
And  write  long  letters  to  her  old  schoolmate 
Who  lived  in  the  far  West,  and  tell  her  all 
The  happiness  now  hers,  and  wish  that  she 
Might  find  a  portion  of  this  same  great  joy. 
And  while  she  wrote  she  might  look  up  and  read 
Those  lines  that  good  old  Michael  sent  to  them 
The  day  that  she  and  Donald  had  been  wed. 
Yes,  there  it  was,  in  his  distinguished  hand, 
Framed  simply,  as  his  pocket  could  afford, 
Yet  worth  to  them  more  than  all  other  gifts, 
Because  it  was  from  him — their  "Wedding  Song.' 

[21] 


YOUTH 

Now  a  new  life  is  yours! 

New  dreams,  new  seas,  new  shores 

Reveal  their  golden  gifts 

To  you,  dear  friends.     Now  drifts 

Into  your  young  glad  days 

That  perfect  love  that  slays 

All  base,  despised  things — 

That  perfect  love  that  brings 

A  peace  more  priceless  far 

Than  heaven  s  most  perfect  star; 

That  love  that  should  outlast 

Earth's  mornings;  love  so  vast 

The  ivorld  itself  seems  small — 

Since  you  hold  All  in  All. 

Dear  friends,  I  only  pray 
That  every  new  white  day 
May  hold  the  shining  bliss 
That  comes  to  you  with  this;  • 
That  you  who  have  learned  well 
Love's  matchless  miracle, 
May  be  thrice  good,  thrice  kind 
To  those  still  du?nb  and  blind ; 
And  if  outside  your  gate 
A  lonely  friend  should  wait, 

[22] 


YOUTH 

A  beggar  in  the  dark, 
You  both  should  pause  and  hark, 
And  give  from  your  great  light 
A  torch  for  his  dim  night! 

Shut  Michael  from  their  gate !     So  might  they  shut 
Each  other  out!     Their  love  were  not  the  same, 
If  he  were  wholly  absent  from  their  side. 
And  Lucy  missed  him  quite  as  much  as  Don 
When  he  withdrew  from  their  companionship, 
Feeling  sometimes  they  saw  too  much  of  him. 


[23] 


YOUTH 

VI 

Just  as  two  lovers  quarrel  bitterly, 
Loving  each  other  all  the  painful  while, 
Michael  and  Donald  craved  their  intimate  talks, 
Yet  when  they  met,  argued  with  highest  words, 
Until  it  seemed  the  rafters  must  fall  down 
At  their  excited  scenes  ! 

If  you  had  heard, 

As  Lucy  did,  their  passionate  dialogue, 
You  would  have  said  they  must  be  enemies, 
Not  friends;  but  patient  Lucy  knew  so  well 
Their  deep  affection,  that  she  had  no  fears, 
But  only  smiled  when  riotously  they  talked, 
As  if  the  weight  of  all  the  centuries 
Were  on  their  shoulders,  and  as  if  mankind 
Must  solve,  through  them,  its  deepest  riddles  I     So 
Youth  deems.it  reads  the  destiny  of  things, 
The  final  answer  to  perplexing  ills, 
And  goes  on  settling  questions  with  a  word, 
Dismissing  Life's  great  problems  with  a  smile! 

But  the  strange  thing  in  all  their  talks  was  this: 
That  one  had  thought  the  wild  poetic  fire 

[24] 


YOUTH 

Would  leap  with  more  persistence.     Donald,  though, 
Was  always  the  aggressor,  flaring  up 
With  rumpled  hair,  and  flushes  on  his  cheeks, 
While  Michael  calmly  smiled  and  filled  his  pipe 
And  puffed  away,  or  sipped  his  stein  of  beer, 
Keeping  his  peace  until  some  sudden  word 
Cleverly  planned  by  Donald,  stirred  his  blood. 
Then  quietly  yet  strongly  he  proclaimed 
His  attitude;  and  Donald,   all  aglee 
At  having  finally  brought  on  the  storm, 
Shot  out  the  lightning  of  his  bitter  gibes, 
And  rolled  the  thunder  of  his  mockery. 

How  they  enjoyed  these  verbal  tourneys! — each 

When  once  aroused,  in  fine  trim  for  the  fray ! 

But  let  a  third  friend  take,  say,  Donald's  side 

In  any  argument,  and  try  to  push 

Poor  Michael  to  the  wall,  and  Don  would  leap 

Into  the  other  train  of  thought,  and  hurl 

His  sudden  ally  forth,  surprised,  perplexed! 


[25] 


YOUTH 


VII 

The  Summer  passed,  with  Michael  often  there 
At  those  roof-garden  feasts,  a  quiet  guest 
When  he  and  Donald  were  not  arguing, 
Too  tired  sometimes  from  his  day's  iron  tasks, 
To  be  the  brilliant  talker;  still  he  gave 
So  much  in  his  strange,  simple,  boyish  way, 
That  he  was  always  eagerly  desired; 
One  of  those  friends  who  need  not  say  a  word, 
His  presence  and  his  silence  ample  joy. 

The  Winter  came,  with  talks  beside  the  fire, 

And  cozy  dinners  in  the  birch-bark  room, 

While  the  loud  wind  howled  on  the  very  roof 

Where  only  a  few  months  ago  the  sun 

Beat  down  in  Summer  fury.     Then  Spring  came 

As  only  Spring  can  come  to  sad  New  York. 

The  joy  they  knew  seemed  greater  than  before, 

If  this  could  be — a  joy  so  glorious 

That  Lucy  sometimes  wakened  in  the  night, 

A  strange  uneasiness  within  her  heart, 

And  reached  out  wildly  in  the  dark  to  know 

[26] 


YOUTH 

If  Donald  really  rested  at  her  side. 

Then  she  would  smile  at  her  own  fear,  and  fall 

Asleep  again,  still  smiling  in  her  dreams. 

Too  good  the  gods  had  been  to  her,  she  felt.   .  .   . 

Could  the  dream  last,  and  could  Life  thus  endure? 

When  ruddy,  mild  October  brought  to  town 

The  European  voyagers,  and  the  folk 

Who  spent  their  Summers  by  the  sea,  and  all 

The  City  took  its  fresh,  clean  note  again, 

Lucy  told  Donald  she  would  ask  her  friend, 

Mary,  who  never  yet  had  seen  New  York, 

To  come  with  them  while  Autumn's  crisp,  cool  days 

Made  the  streets  lovely.     So  the  word  was  sent, 

With  the  young  husband  and  his  wife  alert 

For  every  post,  and  not  content  until 

The  answer  came,  and  Mary  blest  them  both, 

And  thanked  her  friend  for  such  kind  thoughts  of 

her. 

Of  course  she'd  come !     That  need  not  be  discussed; 
She'd  pack  her  trunk  and  stay  till  Christmastime, 
As  Lucy  had  suggested.     And  what  fun 
To  see  the  shops,  the  crowds,  to  hear  the  noise 
That  only  in  her  dreams  she  yet  had  heard ! 

[27] 


YOUTH 

Her  prairie  town  was  lovely — but  New  York, 
With  its  great  theatres  and  its  opera, 
Its  art  museums  and  superb  hotels, 
Its  Subway  and  its  Elevated  Road, 
Its  taxicabs  and  famed  Fifth  avenue — 
Well,  she  could  hardly  wait  to  see  them  all, 
And,  better  still,  see  Lucy  once  again! 

That  was  a  letter  to  make  warm  one's  heart; 
And  Donald,  who  had  never  met  this  friend, 
Was  quite  agog  when  Lucy  read  the  note 
Telling  of  Mary's  visit. 

But  one  thing 

Disturbed  him  when  a  few  more  days  went  by, 
Though  to  his  wife  he  never  gave  a  sign, 
Nor  once  took  Michael  in  his  confidence. 
There  came  into  his  eyes  a  far-off  look, 
A  strange  abstraction  in  his  conduct,  too, 
And  Lucy,  ever  quick  to  note  a  change 
In  his  demeanor,  asked  him  what  it  meant; 
But  he  laughed  off  her  fears,  and  went  to  work 
With   a  new  zeal. 

At  this  time  Mary  came. 

[28] 


YO  UTH 


VIII 

On  their  sight-seeing  tramps,  Donald  went,  too, 

Saying  that  any  draughting  well  could  wait. 

Mary's  arrival  caused  his  spirits  to  change, 

And  once  again  he  seemed  his  old,  wild  self. 

He  loved  to  watch  the  prairie  girl's  surprise 

Say,  at  the  Hippodrome,  or  at  the  play; 

And  her  first  glimpse  of  Brooklyn  bridge ! — the  joy 

Was  quite  as  great  for  Lucy  and  for  Don 

As  for  their  friend.     She  never  seemed  to  tire 

Of  looking  at  sky-soaring  towers,  there 

Seeing  the  terrible  beauty  of  the  town — 

A  city  wonderful  for  those  who  look, 

But  ugly  for  the  blind  who  will  not  see. 

Donald  delighted  in  her  reverence 

For  the  mad  buildings  of  a  modern  age, 

Even  as  a  poet  rejoices  in  a  heart 

That  loves  the  songs  the  noblest  singers  weave 

For  the  world's  added  beauty. 

So  he  told 
Her  many  things  of  columns  and  facades, 

[29] 


YOUTH 

The  Renaissance  and  Florentine  designs, 
That  made  her  understand  more  fully  still 
The  principles  that  shape  each  climbing  tower. 
Each  massive  wall,  and  blazing,  sun-kissed  dome. 

And  once  he  told  her  of  his  own  far  hope — 

That  city  he  would  come  to  build  for  men. 

And  Mary  thought  how  good  it  was  to  know 

A  man  who  built  such  fancies;  one  who  dreamed 

The  highest  dreams,  and  kept  his  valiant  faith. 

Here  in  this  mighty  City  things  were  done, 

And  men  were  rising  on  its  seething  tide 

To  push  the  world  to  greater  glory  yet. 

O  it  was  good  to  be  a  part  of  this, 

Though  but  a  fragment  of  the  wondrous  woof, 

A  thread  entangled  through  an  accident 

In  the  whole  clear  design !     How  must  it  seem 

To  be  a  figure  of  the  pattern  made, 

A  necessary  portion  of  the  scheme ! 


[30] 


YOUTH 


IX 

Always  young  Michael,  on  his  holidays, 
Was  made  the  fourth  in  any  joyful  plan; 
They  needed  him  at  dinner,  Don  would  say, 
Quite  as  they  needed  salt  to  season  bread! 
So  Michael  came,  as  often  as  might  be, 
Glad  to  play  any  part  that  suited  them. 

His  dry,  strange  humor,  and  his  curious  moods, 

The  contrast  from  one  evening's  merriment 

To  the  abstraction  of  another  night, 

Were  just  the  things  to  interest  a  girl 

Of  Mary's  worth.      She  never  was  quite  sure 

Of  Michael  Deane,  and  this  uncertainty 

Made  every  meeting  more  to  be  desired; 

For  women  always  like  elusive  men, 

Whose  very  mystery  is  their  strength  and  charm. 

She  liked  his  firm  reliability; 
The  fact  that  when  he  said,  "I  shall  be  there," 
He  meant  it,  and  would  keep  his  given  word. 
She  liked  his  candor,  and  a  way  he  had 

[31] 


YOUTH 

Of  always  quietly  remembering 
Each  trivial  anniversary  that  came. 
"Two  years  ago,"  he'd  say  to  Lucy,  "yes, 
Two  years  ago,  Donald  and  you  first  met. 
Suppose  you  dine  with  me  at  that  French  place, 
And  we'll  take  Mary  too,  if  she  will  go." 

Then  at  the  little  table  d'hote  he'd  read 

A  glowing  rhyme  occasioned  by  the  date; 

And  Donald,  who  had  meant  so  well  to  be 

The  first  to  recollect  this  very  day, 

Would  feel  ashamed  at  his  remiss  young  ways, 

And  toast  his  wife,  his  friend,  and  in  his  heart 

Bless  the  kind  gods  that  made  old  Michael  quick 

To  do  the  things  that  he  himself  was  lax 

In  doing  for  the  woman  whom  he  loved. 


[32] 


YOUTH 


X 

Christmas  brings  always  thoughts  of  carnival; 

And  Donald  and  Lucy  planned,  with  Michael's  aid, 

A  dance  for  Mary  in  their  studio ; 

But  not  a  word  of  this  delightful  scheme 

Must  reach  her  ears,  they  said.     Surprise  is  half 

Of  joy,  and  all  of  life;  and  so  the  place 

Where  Donald  wrought  designs  was  cleared  one  day, 

While  Mary,  all  unknowing,  cozy  sat 

WTith  Lucy  in  the  little  birch-bark  room, 

Talking  of  nothing,  and  of  everything; 

Telling  her  how  the  City  thrilled  her  soul, 

And  she  must  spend  the  whole  long  Winter  here, 

Their  neighbor  in  a  street  not  far  away; 

And  meanwhile  she  would  diligently  work 

At  the  great  art  school  where  she  longed  to  be. 

And  while  she  told  of  her  ambitious  hopes, 
Unknown  to  her,  only  two  walls  between, 
Donald  and  Michael  hung  a  room  with  ropes 
Of  holly,  and  prepared  the  studio  floor 
For  the  gay  evening  that  they  had  in  mind. 

[33] 


YO  UTH 

''We'll  have  the  three  musicians  sit  in  here," 
Don  said;  "this  little  alcove's  just  the  place. 
And  when  the  draughting-boards  are  moved  away 
I  think  you'll  see  the  room's  of  ample  size 
To  hold  a  dance — ten  couples  on  the  floor. 
In  every  cranny  we'll  put  sprigs  of  green, 
And  over  all  those  metal  lanterns  hang 
A  spray  of  mistletoe !      I  want  the  place 
To  look  its  best,  not  only  for  Mary's  sake, 
But — well — of  course,  old  man,  of  course  I've  asked 
My  friend  from  Willow  Brook  whose  house  I've 
planned     .      .      ." 


[34] 


YOUTH 


XI 

The  glad  night  came — a  night  of  wind  and  snow; 

And  every  guest  that  bustled  to  the  dance 

Brought  in  a  coat  powdered  with  silver  flakes, 

And  ears  and  fingers  chilled  by  the  cold  blast; 

For  few  of  these  young  friends  were  folk  who  rode 

In  carriages  and  motors;  trolley-cars 

Came  nearer  to  the  limits  of  each  purse ! 

But  no  one  minded,  for  the  glowing  fire 

And  Christmas  punch  soon  warmed  the  fine  young 

blood ; 

And  when  the  revel  of  the  dance  began 
There  was  no  memory  of  the  storm  without. 

Lucy  had  never  seemed  so  beautiful; 

She  wore  a  simple  frock  of  white  and  pink, 

And  in  her  belt  a  cluster  of  violets 

That  matched  the  purple  wonder  of  her  eyes. 

Always  she  was  her  best,  as  true  folk  are, 

When  she  dispensed  glad  hospitality 

In  her  own  simple  way,  in  her  own  home. 

[35] 


YOUTH 

And  Mary!     No  girl  ever  knew  such  joy 

When  first  she  came  into  that  green-filled  room, 

And  Donald  and  Lucy  and  Michael  said  at  once, 

"It  is  for  you — yes,  all  of  it — for  you!" 

Her    eyes    lit    up,     and    then    were    veiled    with 

tears 
These  were  her  friends — how  rich  she  was  to-night  1 

The  music  sang  the  waltzes  that  they  loved — 
The  true,  old-fashioned  waltzes;  those  that  make 
Young  feet  trip  lighter  on  the  polished  floor. 
In  those  old  measures,  and  with  those  they  loved, 
How  brightly  sped  the  hours  of  Chrismas  Eve ! 

Donald  was  his  gay  self;  his  happiness 
Was  that  full  joy  a  kindly  host  must  know; 
The  dance  was  swinging  to  success;  the  punch 
Was  excellent;  the  girls  were  radiant; 
And  all  the  men  acclaimed  the  fine  cigars 
When  they  retired  to  another  room 
To  talk  the  man-talk  and  indulge  in  smoke. 

But  Lucy  watched  Don  with  a  little  fear; 
She  saw — as  wifely  eyes  are  quick  to  see — 
Beneath  his  smiles  a  lurking  sense  of  pain; 
And  her  swift  intuition  knew  the  cause. 

[36] 


YOUTH 

The  hour  had  almost  come  when  they  had  planned 

To  spread  the  supper  in  the  studio, 

And  one  chief  guest  was  strangely  unannounced. 

"It  is  the  storm — I'm  sorry  for  Don's  sake," 
Thought  Lucy,  as  she  climbed  the  tiny  stairs 
To  the  birch  room  on  some  brief  errand;  then 
She  heard  the  telephone,  and  hurried  on 
To  answer  the  sharp  tinkle  of  the  bell. 

When  she   rejoined  the  guests  she  touched  Don's 

arm, 

A  smile  upon  her  lips.     Quickly  he  turned, 
And  in  that  movement  Lucy  felt  his  nerves 
Vibrate  to  her;  his  tingling  energy 
Flash  through  the  fingers  that  had  pressed  his  sleeve. 

"It's  all  right,  Donald.     She  is  coming  now. 

I'm  so  glad  for  your  sake.     She  telephoned     .     .     . 

The  storm,  you  know." 

She  paused,  for  Don  was  white. 
"You  did  not  call  me,  Lucy,  so  that  I 
Might  speak  to  her?"  he  asked. 

"Why,  Donald,  no; 

[37] 


YO  UTH 

Why  should  I  wish  to  take  you  from  your  guests, 
When  I  was  there  to  answer?     .      .     .      Come — 

that  waltz— 
You've  hardly  asked  your  wife  to  dance  at  all!" 

A  half-hour  later,  and  she  came  to  them, 

Mysteriously  lovely.     She  it  was, 

In  Donald's  eyes,  who  made  the  night  supreme; 

And  she  it  was  who,  in  an  untold  way, 

Filled  the  big  studio  with  those  ancient  dreams. 

Her  presence  was  to  him  the  dream  itself. 

For  she  had  told  him,  in  the  few  brief  times 
When  they  had  met,  of  her  desire  to  be 
His  helper  in  the  distant  hope  he  kept 
Forever  in  his  heart;  she  too  had  dreamed, 
And  she  could  see,  in  dimmest  outlines  yet, 
That  city  he  would  come  to  build  for  men. 

She  turned  to  Lucy  with  a  wondrous  smile, 
And  kissed  her. 

"This,  then,  is  the  little  wife 
Of  the  wild  boy  who  rears  his  castles  in  Spain — 
And  also  in  the  country  round  New  York ! 

[38] 


YOUTH 

I  like  you,  dear — I  like  your  violet  eyes, 

Your  hair,  your  smile !     You  must  be  good  to  him, 

Wild  dreamer  who  shall  realize  his  dream. 

And  when  my  house  is  done — at  Willow  Brook — 

You  two  shall  be  the  first  guests  I  shall  ask 

To  sleep  beneath  the  roof  his  brain  conceived." 

The  dance  went  on — with  nothing  quite  the  same; 
It  was  as  if  a  queen  had  graced  a  board 
Where  simple  folk,  sufficient  to  themselves, 
Were  happy  till  the  moment  when  she  came. 
Then  everything  grew  formal,  cold,  opaque, 
And  conversation  that  had  lightly  tripped 
From  casual  lips,  grew  stiff  and  meaningless. 

There  were  bright  toasts  at  suppertime  to  all — 
To  Mary  first,  to  Don  and  Michael  too; 
And  then  at  last  the  wondrous  guest  proposed 
The  deepest  goblet — "to  young  Lucy's  health!" 
And  each  one  said,  "God  bless  her!"  as  he  drank. 

The  lights  were  out,  and  the  last  guest  had  gone. 
Mary  was  staying  with  the  Kents  to-night, 
And  when  Don,  pleading  utter  weariness, 

[39] 


YOUTH 

Went  to  his  room,  the  two  girls  sat  awhile 
Before  the  open  fire.     No  word  was  said 
For  a  long  time.     Then  Mary,  on  the  floor 
At  Lucy's  feet,  reached  for  her  old  friend's  hand, 
And  pressed  it  in  her  own;  yet  still  no  word 
Was  spoken,  and  the  only  sound  was  that 
Of  the  snow  beating  on  the  glass  above, 
And  the  sharp  snapping  of  the  dying  flames. 

"Lucy     .      .     ."     At  last  her  friend's  name  crossed 

her  lips; 

"Lucy,  I  am  more  happy,  dear,  to-night, 
Than  I  had  ever  thought  a  girl  could  be. 
Michael  has  told  me  that  he  loves  me — yes, 
And  I  have  told  him  that  I  love  him  too ! 

Here  in  your  home  the  words  were  said  that  seal 
My  destiny;  that's  why  I  am  so  glad 
Lucy,  lean  down  and  kiss  me." 

Lucy  brushed 

The  heavy  hair  back  from  the  other's  face, 
And  with  a  heavenly  beauty  in  her  eyes, 
Leaned  down  and  kissed  her  friend,  and  held  her 
there 

[40] 


YOUTH 

Close  in  a  trembling  ecstasy  of  joy. 

"O  Mary,  I  am  glad — so  glad  for  you!" 

How  strange  Life  was — Mary  found  Love  to-night, 
While  she  stood  swaying  on  the  dizzy  verge 
Where  her  young  dreams  seemed  falling  down  the 
dark! 


[41] 


YOUTH 


XII 

It  was  not  Lucy's  nature  to  cry  out 

From  the  high  house-tops  her  fast-growing  grief; 

Rather  she  hid  beneath  serenest  smiles 

Her  secret  sorrow  through  those  Winter  days. 

Donald  was  always  busy  with  his  plans, 

And  now  the  joy  she  knew  he  still  must  feel 

In  greater  work  was  never  shared  with  her. 

And  yet  she  knew  his  every  mood  so  well 

That  she  was  certain  he  expressed  his  hopes 

To  someone;  for  expression  was  to  him 

The  breath  of  Life. 

There  came  those  ceaseless  calls 
To  Willow  Brook;  beyond  the  Palisades 
The  bright  new  city  would  one  day  be  built, 
And  there   were   countless   schemes   to   be   worked 

out — 

Plans  and  designs  that  left  her  quite  alone 
Through  the  long  Winter  evenings. 

Mary  was  full 
Of  her  affairs  with  Michael — here  and  there 

[42] 


YOUTH 

On  little  jaunts  or  dinners  just  for  two — 
The  happy  trysts  that  all  true  lovers  know. 

But  one  cold  night  Michael  and  Mary  went 
To  see  their  friends  high  in  their  birch-bark  nest, 
And  found  poor  Lucy  sitting  there  alone, 
A  copy  of  Richard  Feverel  in  her  hand. 

"Why,  where  is  Don?"  they  both  exclaimed  at  once. 
"At  Willow  Brook — as  usual,"  Lucy  said; 
"The  new  house  must  be  started  in  the  Spring, 
And  there  is  much  to  do." 

They  said  no  more;  / 

But  Mary  always  after  that  took  pains, 
Without  her  friend  suspecting  her  intent, 
To  telephone  at  twilight;  then  if  Don 
Were  absent  still,  she  said  that  they  would  come, 
Or  else  urge  Lucy  out  to  some  bright  place 
Where  music  made  the  happy  hours  sing  by. 


[43] 


YOUTH 

XIII 

When  the  first  rumors  started,  Lucy  laughed    .    .    . 

It  could  not  be — O  no !  it  could  not  be ! 

But  secretly  she  wept — looked  in  the  glass — 

And  kissed  a  glove  Donald  had  lately  worn. 

She  still  had  charms  to  hold  him,  that  she  knew; 

They  were  vile  tongues  that  so  defiled  his  name — 

Donald  could  never  be  a  man  so  base. 

Well,  if  it  were  the  truth,  then  she  would  show 

Her  little  world  how  worthy  she  could  be, 

Not  of  its  sympathy  or  cold  respect, 

Its  pity  or  its  tears,  but  of  its  love. 

She  gave  bright  dinners  for  the  very  one 

Whose  name  was  linked  with  Donald's  in  those  days, 

And  smiled  as  bravely  as  if  no  foul  word 

Had  reached  her  ears.     She  was  too  proud  to  lose 

With  bitter  sobs  the  love  she  needed  so ; 

Always  she  laughed — and  laughter  was  her  sword. 

And  then  one  day  when  folk  almost  believed 
That  they  had  quite  misjudged  a  thoughtless  boy, 
Lucy  learned  joyfully  that  heaven  was  kind, 
And  whispered  in  her  husband's  ears  the  words 
That  tell  the  happiest  secret  two  may  know. 

[44] 


YOUTH 


XIV 

Michael  and  Mary  married  in  the  Spring; 
And  while  they  sojourned  in  the  distant  West, 
Lucy,  in  her  new  happiness,  wove  dreams 
Of  them  and  of  her  own  approaching  joy. 
Beneath  her  lamp  she  sewed  with  loving  hands 
The  little  garments  that  so  soon  would  fold 
The  child  she  thought  of  every  waking  hour, 
And  saw  in  every  vision  while  she  slept. 
But  Donald,  his  first  jubilance  gone  by, 
Dreamed  somehow  with  new  wonder  of  his  work; 
While  Lucy  thought  his  silence  was  a  sign 
Of  his  engrossed  delight  in  what  must  be 
Equally  dear  to  him.     And  so  time  passed. 

Lucy  was  never  lonely  now,  though  Don 
Was  absent  often  in  the  days  that  saw 
The  house  at  Willow  Brook  progressing  fast. 
She  had  the  benison  of  peace  with  her, 
She  held  the  hope  of  ages  in  her  heart; 
And  her  long  days  were  one  long  ceaseless  prayer, 
Filled     with     high     thoughts     too     wonderful     to 
name     .     .     . 

[45] 


YOUTH 


XV 

He  leaned  above  his  wife — above  his  child, 

Awkward  in  this  great  moment  of  his  life, 

Not  knowing  how  to  voice  his  manly  pride, 

His  young  heart  beating  with  a  new  delight. 

To-night  he  reached  the  ultimate  peaks  of  joy, 

The  summits  where  the  soul,  almost  afraid, 

Dares  not  look  down  upon  the  level  road 

That  stretches  through  the  valley  whence  it  came. 

How  could  he  ever  walk  those  ways  again, 

The  common  highroads,  having  found  this  height? 

This,  then,  was  Life,  lived  utterly  at  last, 

This  teeming  rapture  in  his  wakened  heart, 

This  flood  of  thoughts  too  deep  for  utterance, 

August  and  strange  beyond  his  dreamed  desire — 

The  splendid  miracle  of  fatherhood. 

How  beautiful  she  looked — how  pale  and  wise, 
Wise  with  mysterious  knowledge — his  young  wife, 
A  mother  now,  exalted  in  her  hour, 
Yet     humble     through     the     God-like     grace     she 

knew 
He  kissed  her,  but  no  word  could  pass  his  lips. 

[46] 


YOUTH 


XVI 

Their  little  daughter  lived  two  golden  months, 

Scarce  longer  than  the  fragile  silver  moon, 

Less  than  the  blooms  that  star  the  meadow-grass, 

Less  than  the  time  the  Spring  is  in  the  world. 

No  one  can  tell  why  April  goes  away ; 

We  simply  know  that  sometimes  all  too  soon 

The  beautiful  must  perish,  and  the  lamp 

Be  lighted,  only  instantly  to  fail. 

A  breath  blows  down  the  darkness,  and  the  spark 

That  lit  our  little  ring  of  happiness 

Goes  out,  and  leaves  us  lonely  in  the  dark. 

So  Mary  thought  that  morning  when  she  sat 
Beside  the  tiny  coffin  of  the  child 
Whose  hands  had  clutched  at  life  so  eagerly, 
And  then  in  helplessness  gone  on  to  death. 

Was  this  the  room,  this  place  of  sorrow  now, 

Where  only  a  few  months  ago  she  knew 

The  greatest  joy  a  woman  ever  knows? 

Was  this  the  room  where,  at  the  Christmas  dance, 

[47] 


YOUTH 

The  shouts  of  laughter  and  the  speeding  feet 
Made  the  walls  ring  and  hushed  the  Winter  winds? 
Here  hope  was  born — and  swiftly  died  again; 
Once  more  our  poor  affairs,  like  lantern-slides, 
Moved  gaily  or  moved  sadly  on  the  screen, 
And  we  were  weeping  even  while  we  smiled 


[48] 


YOUTH 

XVII 

He  came  to  her  one  evening,  tired  and  worn; 
And  Lucy,  having  lost  the  child  she  loved, 
Drew  this  great  child  to  her,  and  stroked  his  hair — 
Defeated  motherhood  triumphant  now. 

But  neither  spoke.     She  knew  this  time  would  come, 
This  hour  when  his  large  need  of  her  would  break 
All  barriers  down.     Their  mutual  joy  had  been 
Not  strong  enough  to  mend  the  severed  threads, 
But  in  the  instant  of  their  common  pain 
He  learned  that  he  loved  Lucy  more  than  life, 
More  than  the  dream  that  was  a  shadow  now. 

"Lucy,"  he  said,  "can  you  forgive  me,  dear? 
I  have  no  right  to  ask,  no  right,  I  know, 
For  I  have  forfeited  all  claims  with  you; 
And  yet,  that  old  compassion  in  your  eyes 
Still  makes  me  brave  to  come  to  you  to-night. 
Can  you  forgive  me,  Lucy,  knowing  all?" 


[49] 


YOUTH 

She  stroked  his  hair  in  the  old  tender  way. 
"Donald,  I  can  forgive  you — knowing  all. 
I  am  the  Lucy  of  a  certain  tale 
We  both  have  loved — and  you  are  Richard  now. 
Do  you  remember  how,  one  solemn  night, 
He  came  to  her,  confessing  all  his  fault? 
'Do  you  remember     .      .     .?" 

"Lucy!     Lucy,  my  wife!" 
Donald  cried  out,  and  hid  his  shameful  head 
Between  his  hands.      "O  you  are  wonderful, 
Too  wonderful  to  me  !      I  cannot  hope 
Ever  again  to  be  quite  worthy  of  you. 
You,  knowing  all,  say  this?" 

"Yes,  knowing  all, 

Dear  Donald,  for  you  knew  not  what  you  did. 
If  you  had  ceased  to  love  me,  I  had  known. 
You  loved  your  dream — and  she  was  part  of  it; 
But  always,  though  you  never  told  me  so, 
I  knew  you  loved  me  still;  and  in  that  hour 
When  our  child  died  I  knew  you  loved  me  more. 

You  left  me  for  your  dream     .      .      ." 

"I  followed  it 
All,  all  for  you,  and  if  it  had  come  true — 

[50] 


YOUTH 

If  I  had  built  that  city  that  I  loved— 

You  should  have  been  the  empress  of  its  walls, 

You  should  have  been     .      .     ." 

UI  know  what  you  would  say; 
But  Donald,  I  would  rather  be  your  wife, 
Here  in  this  little  birch-bark  room  than  there, 
A  lonely  queen  high  on  a  city  hill ! 
I  want  but  you — you  and  a  child  again; 
I  want  the  old-time  lover — that  is  all." 

"And  I  want  you,  O  Lucy,  my  young  wife!"- 

The  tears  were  streaming  from  his  blinded  eyes — 

"I  want  you  more  than  dreams  of  glittering  towers 

In  that  new  city  which  my  fancy  built. 

I  shall  conceive  a  city  of  content 

For  you  alone,  and  me;  and  heaven  may  send 

Us  other  children  for  the  one  we  lost 

To  make  our  dwelling  perfect.      Better  far 

The  firm  reality  than  some  remote 

Pale  wonder  set  upon  the  windy  heights. 

O  Lucy,  let  me  build  your  days  for  you, 

Full  of  wide  windows  looking  to  the  light, 

Full  of  great  corridors  which  we  may  tread 

Untroubled  by  the  clamor  of  the  world. 

[51] 


YOUTH 

And     I    shall     build     one     sumptuous     place     for 

you     .     .     ." 

"Like  this,"  she  said,  and  laughingly  gazed  round 
The  little  birch-bark  room.     "This  is  enough, 
With  you,  my  Donald!      .     .     .     Listen!  what  is 

that? 
Michael  and  Mary  are  coming  up  the  stairs!" 


SHELLEY'S  SKYLARK 

JMMORTAL  bird, 

Whose  song  God's  purest  poet  long  since  heard, 
And  caught  within  the  golden  chains  of  rhyme, 
Our  captive  for  all  time ! 

O  tender  tones, 

That  none  who,  hearing,  ever  can  forget, 

Even  when  the  city's  thunder  crashes  and  groans, 

And  the  wood's  whisper  moans — 

How  wonderful  that  thou  art  with  us  yet! 

High  on  the  Hills  of  Song  thy  song  is  set, 

Within  the  very  blue  where  first  thy  voice 

Made  his  young  heart  rejoice; 

And  from  empyrean  heights  forever  shall  fall 

Thy  silver  madrigal, 

Drenching  the  world  with  thine  enraptured  stream, 

Thy  heavenly  dream, 

Cleansing  us  as  in  fires  angelical, 

[55] 


A  SONG  IN  APRIL 

CUN! — and  the  rush  of  the  rain 
Swift  through  the  lilac  lane; 
The  joy  o'  the  world  and  the  grief  o'  the  world 
Beat  at  my  window-pane. 

Love! — and  the  ancient  tears; 
Hope  ! — and  a  hundred  fears. 

The  light  o'  the  world  and  the  dark  o'  the  world. 
They  follow  us  down  the  years. 


[58] 


KNOWLEDGE 

CO  many  Aprils  went  away 

Before  I  learned  one  little  part 
Of  all  the  joy  each  fragile  day 
Hid  in  its  heart. 

So  many  Summers  hastened  by 
Before  I  caught  their  secret  spell, 

And  read  in  bloom  and  leaf  and  sky 
Life's  miracle. 

Would  that  Youth's  eye  could  see  the  grace 
And  wonder  of  the  drifting  years     .     . 

Grown  old,  their  loveliness  we  trace 
Through  blinding  tears. 


[59] 


SLOW  PARTING 

'  I  VHERE  was  no  certain  hour 

Wherein  we  said  good-bye  ; 
But  day  by  day,  and  year  by  year 

We  parted — you  and  I ; 
And  ever  as  we  met,  each  felt 

The  shadow  of  a  lie. 

It  would  have  been  too  hard 

To  say  a  swift  farewell; 
You  could  not  goad  your  tongue  to  name 

The  words  that  rang  my  knell; 
But  better  that  quick  death  than  this 

Glad  heaven  and  mad  hell! 


[62] 


OF  A   FRIEND   WHO    DIED    IN    THE 
SPRING 

(M.  J.  F.) 

CHE  who  was  like  a  flower, 
Why  should  she  go  away 
When  all  the  world  was  jubilant 
With  hawthorn-bloom  and  May? 

I  cannot  think  of  her  as  one 

Who  sleeps  the  Sleep  profound, 
For  her  light  laughter  mocked  our  tears — 

Hushed  now  that  golden  sound. 

Once  more  the  lark  ascends  the  sky 

To  utter  his  glad  song; 
To-day  the  Spring's  old  miracle 

Reviles  the  ancient  wrong. 

And  she — I  think  I  see  her  face 

In  every  starry  bloom, 
And  hear  her  laughter  when  the  breeze 

Sings  through  the  Earth's  great  room. 


SMOKE 

HAVE  watched  the  smoke  ascending  from  the 
A      work-shops  of  the  world, 

Blowing  in  an  endless  spiral  as  it  soared, 
Till  it  seemed  to  reach  high  heaven  when  it  valiantly 

upcurled — 

Labor's    incense    (whispered    Mammon)    to   the 
Lord. 

But  I  saw,  as  in  a  vision,  the  wan  profiles  of  the 

poor 

In  the  outline  of  the  smoke  against  the  sky ; 
And  I  saw  their  anguished  bodies   that  no  longer 

could  endure, 

Sweeping  upward — and  I  thought  I  heard  them 
sigh. 

Yet  the  mighty  lords  of  labor,  they  who  prosper  in 

the  sun 

While  the  darkness  of  the  engine-room  is  deep, 
Tell  us  this  is  their  grey  tribute  for  another  day's 

work  done, 

This  the  token  of  their  thanks  before  they  sleep. 
[66] 


SMOKE 

But  I  know  it  is  the  breath  of  them  who  labor  in  the 

mills, 

I  know  it  is  a  portion  of  each  soul 
Who  has  known  the  stifling,  chain ed-up  years,  the 

grind  that  slowly  kills, 
As  I  watch  the  velvet  columns  upward  roll. 

Thick  and  thicker  swings  the  whirlwind  up  the  lad 
der  of  the  night, 
Dense  and  denser  sweeps  the  twilight's  punctual 

cloud; 
If  this  be  Toil's  great  censer  swung  with  Wealth's 

tumultuous  might, 

Then  with  shame,  O  Lord,  with  shame  my  head 
is  bowed. 

For  Thy  children  in  our  keeping  lose  a  little  by  day, 
Thin  and  thinner  toward  high  heaven  blows  their 

breath, 
And  I  know  that  from  the  chimneys  that  are  black 

and  tall  and  grey, 
Each  sunset  moves  an  army  unto  Death! 


THE   DAYS   REBUKED   ME 

'"T"SHE    days    rebuked    me,    saying:    "Honor    and 

praise, 

Wisdom  and  high  endeavor,  fame  and  peace 
Are  in  our  keeping  as  the  dawns  increase; 
Not  fame  alone,  but  fame's  immortal  bays 
We  hold,  and  all  thy  youth's  great  strength,  which 

slays 

Fear  and  her  cohorts  when  they  seek  release. 
What  hast  thou  done  to  gain  even  one  of  these, 

0  young,  wild  heart?"     Thus  spake  the  patient  days. 

1  heard  their  voices  in  the  dusk  and  dawn; 

I  listened,  and  my  soul,  a  coward,  wept, 
Then  put  Youth's  mighty  armor  bravely  on, 

And  from  the  Camps  of  Quiet  proudly  swept. 
I  fought  with  Life,  I  knew  the  pain  that  sears  .   .  . 
The  days  rebuked  me — days  that  soon  are  years ! 


WHEN   A   GREAT   MAN   DIES 

"*HE  flags  are  hung  half-mast  to-day, 
But  they'll  all  be  high  to-morrow ! 
This  is  the  big  world's  cruel  way, 
Ah  !  this  is  how  we  sorrow ! 

A  moment's  grief,  a  brief  delay 
From  plough  and  field  and  furrow — 

The  flags  are  hung  half-mast  to-day, 
But  they'll  all  be  high  to-morrow! 

We  mourn  one  hour,  we  pause  to  pray, 
(Sad  prayers  that  we  must  borrow!) 

One  little  while  we  softly  say 

Poor  words  of  pain  and  sorrow; 

The  flags  are  hung  half-mast  to-day, 
But  they'll  all  be  high  to-morrow! 


[70] 


THREADS  OF  SONG 

OD  made  a  wondrous  tapestry, 

And  called  it  Life.     To  you  and  me 

He  gave  the  coarse,  dark  threads  to  spin, 
The  common  fabric,  out  and  in 

To  weave  by  day  and  in  the  night, 
In  sorrow  and  in  candlelight. 

But  in  one  sunlit,  glowing  room, 
Untouched  of  terror  or  of  gloom, 

He  placed,  to  do  their  labor  long, 
His  glad,  imperial  Lords  of  Song. 

And  they  the  golden  threads  are  given 
To  weave  in  fancy  up  to  heaven. 

O,  theirs  the  pure,  exalted  hours, 

Whose  shuttles  spin  such  deathless  flowers; 

But  vain  their  toil  miraculous, 
Without  the  background  made  by  us ! 

[71] 


AT  THE  END  OF  SEPTEMBER 

I    SAW  the  abundant  beauty  of  the  world 
One  full  day  hurled 

In  bank  on  bank  of  crimson  and  of  gold; 
It  was  as  if  Life's  rosary  had  been  told, 
And  no  more  prayers 
And  no  more  cares 

Need  follow  us  beyond  those  gates  empearled 
That  opened  in  the  sky  when  twilight  came 
With  wonderful  red  flame. 

All  beauty  fainted  in  the  purple  dusk, 

And  lay  quite  still 

Upon  each  towering  hill, 

Lay  in  the  arms  of  evening  like  a  child 

After  the  Summer,  wild 

With  hum  and  joy  and  madness  and  delight. 

There  was  no  word  to  say; 

It  seemed  to  me  the  day 

With  tasseled  corn  already  in  the  husk, 

[72] 


THE    END    OF    SEPTEMBER 

And  with  its  horn  of  plenty,  the  young  moon, 

Wished  only  now  to  swoon 

Into  the  darkness,  ere  there  came  one  sound 

To  break  the  spell  that  wrapped  her  sweetly  round. 

This  was  the  hour  of  utter  beauty;  this 

The  royal  moment  when  the  Year  fulfilled 

Her  marvellous  slow  march.     Such  bliss 

Must  have  been  known  by  those 

Who  went  where  no  one  knows, 

Seeking  a  matchless  prize 

Where  only  danger  rose — 

Pale  pilgrims  with  a  strength  that  could  not  fail, 

In  their  long  journey  for  the  Holy  Grail. 


[73] 


A  WOMAN'S  PARTING 

T    HAVE  forgotten  you!     Wherefore  my  days 
Run  gladly,  as  in  those  white  hours  gone  by 
Before  I  learned  to  love  you.     Now  have  I 

Returned  to  that  old  freedom,  where  the  rays 

Of  your  strange  wonder  no  more  shall  amaze 
My  spirit.  How  remote  the  rich  hours  lie 
Wherein  our  hearts  were  one !  Eternity 

Is  not  so  distant  to  my  youthful  gaze. 

I  have  forgotten — yea,  and  more  than  this, 
I  nevermore  shall  need  you  at  my  side ; 
New  love,   new  days,   new  friends  shall  swiftly 
glide 

Into  my  life,  to  bring  my  heart  new  bliss. 

(Hush!  On  my  lips  I  feel  a  ghost-like  kiss.) 
I  have  forgotten?  .  .  .  O,  I  lied,  I  lied! 


[74] 


SONG 

A     DEAD  girl  stirred  beneath  the  grass, 

And  lo !  a  blossom  blew; 
And  we  who  watched  the  Spring's  old  joy 

A  double  wonder  knew     .     .      . 
Flowers  are  the  voices  of  the  dead 
Calling  to  me  and  you. 

O  living  language,  fragrant  still, 
Though  Winter  hushed  your  sound, 

How  magical  your  old  words  seem 
As  the  glad  years  wheel  round! 

If  from  our  lips  such  perfume  flows, 
Who  fears  the  quiet  ground? 


[75] 


BONDAGE 

poet  is  a  prisoner  for  all  time; 
But,  captive  in  the  shining  House  of  Song, 
Life,  Love  and  Sorrow  round  about  him  throng, 
And  sweet  are  his  enchanted  chains  of  rhyme! 


[76] 


TRIUMPHANT 

T   LOVE  that  face  the  best, 

That,  lined  and  seared  and  scarred 

After  the  journey  hard, 
Shows  in  each  token  of  life's  awful  test 
A  sign  of  victory  from  the  fields  of  pain; 
Tracings  that  prove  it  braved  the  stinging  rain 

Undaunted,  undismayed, 

Valiantly  unafraid, 

Glad  of  its  grief,  yet  glad  now  of  its  rest. 
I  love  that  face  the  best. 


[77] 


IN  THE  YEAR'S  DUSK 

ET  me  be  glad 

These  Autumn  days  are  sady 
Lest  I,  too  long  familiar  with  the  May, 
Forget,  in  darkness,  how  to  find  my  way. 

Let  me  rejoice 

To  hear  the  lone  wind's  voice, 
So  that,  when  breaks  again  the  April  song, 
This  heedless  heart  of  mine  shall  listen  long. 


[78] 


LOVE'S  RITUAL 

*D  REATHE  me  the  ancient  words  when  I  shall  find 

Your  spirit  mine;  if,  seeking  you,  life  wins 
New  wonder,  with  old  splendor  let  us  bind 

Our  hearts  when  Love's  high  sacrament  begins. 

Exalt  my  soul  with  pomp  and  pageantry, 
Sing  the  eternal  songs  all  lovers  sing; 

Yea,  when  you  come,  gold  let  our  vestments  ber 
And  lamps  of  silver  let  us  softly  swing. 

But  if  at  last,  (hark  how  I  whisper,  Love!) 

You  from  my  temple  and  from  me  should  turn, 

I  pray  you  chant  no  psalm  my  grief  above, 
Over  the  body  of  Pain  let  no  light  burn. 

Go  forth  in  silence,  quiet  as  a  dove, 

Drift,  with  no  sign,   from  our  exultant  place; 

We  need  no  lie  at  the  death  of  Love, 

And  none  should  come  to  look  on  Love's  white 
face. 

[79] 


SLEEP 

OLEEP  seals  our  tired  eyes, 

And  heals  our  burning  ills; 
How  swift  the  spirit  flies 
To  her  deep-bosomed  hills ! 

Sleep  gives — O  gift  supreme! — 
Silence  that  sings,  "Forget!" 

Or  happily  a  dream — 
Remembrance  dearer  yet. 


OF  DEATH 

(To  Michael  Monahan) 

WHY  should  I  fear  that  ultimate  thing— 
The  Great  Release  of  clown  and  king? 

Why  should  I  dread  to  take  my  way 
Through  the  same  shadowed  path  as  they? 

But  can  it  be  a  shadowy  road 

Whereon  both  Youth  and  Genius  strode? 

Can  it  be  dark,  since  Shakespeare  trod 
Its  unknown  length,  to  meet  our  God; 

Since  Shelley,  with  his  valiant  youth, 
Fared  forth  to  learn  the  final  Truth; 

Since  Milton  in  his  blindness  went 
With  wisdom  and  a  high  content; 

And  Angelo  lit  with  white  flame 
The  pathway  when  God  called  his  name; 

[81] 


OF    DEATH 

And  Dante,  seeking  Beatrice, 
Marched  fearless  down  the  deep  abyss? 

Where  Plutarch  went,  and  Socrates, 
Browning  and  Keats,  and  such  as  these, 

Homer,  and  Sappho  with  her  song 
That  echoes  still  for  the  vast  throng; 

Lincoln  and  strong  Napoleon, 
And  calm,  courageous  Washington; 

Great  Alexander,  Nero — names 

That  swept  the  world  with  deathless  flames — 

I  need  not  fear  that  I  shall  fall 

When  the  Lord  God's  great  Voice  shall  call ; 

For  I  shall  find  the  roadway  bright 
When  I  go  forth  some  quiet  night. 


[82] 


UNIVERSITY  OF   CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUB  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 


OCT  15  1917- 

MAY  21 191$ 
WAY  31 


JUL    22 1946 

MAR  16 1980 


FEB21  1980 


30m-6,'14 


U.C.  BERKELEY  LIBRARIES 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


